


In Dubai

by diemme



Series: The Courtship of Sandro and Zlatan [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemme/pseuds/diemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zlatan and Sandro during a training break at Milan's winter camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dubai

**Author's Note:**

> It's all fictional and not meant to imply anything about anyone's sexuality. I own nothing.

In Dubai 

Sandro was drooping round the edges in the extreme heat, pouring as much water over his head as down his throat while the team relaxed during a break in training. Sprawled at his left side, Thiago Silva offered half his own bottle and a sympathetic glance to Sandro’s cause. Sprawled at his right, Zlatan tried not to glance at his damp teammate. Across from them Abbiati was sharing a story about last night’s card game. Zlatan’s half-hearted resolve faded when Sandro sat up, groaned and pressed his temples.

“It’s not _that_ dull a story.”

The defender chuckled then grimaced, “Headache.” His eyes shut, “Can’t seem to shake it.”

The muscles of his neck were visibly tense. Zlatan wet his hands with the last of his cold water and reached for Sandro, rubbing gently, watching the defender carefully, in case he was being more hindrance than help. He wasn’t prepared for Sandro to come undone under his hand. A shudder ran the length of the Italian’s torso, his eyes snapping open and widening; he gasped as though he’d taken a fair sized midfielder to the chest.

“All right, Sandro?” Zlatan’s fingers slowed warily.

“Better than all right, I’d say,” Abbiati answered for him, smirking. “Bit of a massage whore, our Alessandro. Notice the physios only work him over behind closed doors?” Sandro tossed a mild curse at the keeper, his heart clearly not in it.

“Remember the time Paolo was rubbing his shoulders and chatting to Ricky at the same time?” Pippo rolled on his side laughing at the memory. “I thought the kid’s eyes were going to fall out of his head.”

It was pure coincidence that he pressed harder right after Pippo mentioned Paolo, Zlatan decided. He moved his hand upward, a fingertip brushing against Sandro’s left earlobe. The defender collapsed bonelessly against his shoulder, one hand falling awkwardly on Zlatan’s thigh, “Nice.”

Zlatan thought so too, Sandro’s eyes were dark pools of contentment and a flush stained his cheeks. “More effective than the water, thanks,” the fingers on Zlatan’s thigh traced the skin beneath the hem of his shorts.

A shadow fell across them from behind. Allegri eyed the pair dispassionately and announced he didn’t like the look of Sandro. Zlatan, who would never again have any opinion of the coach’s aesthetics, stilled his fingers. Sandro did not. The team doctor, in turn, was equally unimpressed and hauled Sandro off for an examination. For the rest of the training session the heat that plagued Zlatan had nothing to do with the sun.


End file.
